The Shield
by balrogthane
Summary: (movie plus book) Boromir remembers his shield when he goes to talk with Frodo. What will happen to Middle-Earth, now that the Son of Gondor lives? PUT ON HOLD UNTIL I GET MY COPY OF ROTK BACK
1. Amôn Hen, slight revision

Disclaimer  
  
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.  
  
All right, as to ownership-- I do NOT own any characters mentioned in Lord of the Rings, nor do I own Lord of the Rings, nor do I own any rights to it ! There. So I think that means I own nothing at all in this story. :-o  
  
Now you can read the story. :-)  
  
-(----  
  
I really couldn't help myself. I don't have any excuse, I know that. But the Ring! I could hear it sometimes, when I was near Frodo- it spoke to me, called me by name, whispered dark promises and forbidden gifts should I harken to it. I could feel it, like a burning heat in my mind, and I even fancied I could see it: dreaming, and waking if I wasn't careful, anything from a hint of gold at the corner of my eye to a perfect image of it itself, spinning just within my grasp.  
  
I'm sure he noticed me. I often ran my boat up close behind his, contemplating a quick discussion right there on the river to explain my need and worthiness. But I knew he would not hear me. And no, I don't know what I was thinking: I didn't even have an inkling how to harness the power latent in the Ring, I don't even think I knew it made you invisible until Frodo put it on.  
  
I cursed myself bitterly for that, I can tell you. I realized I did the completely wrong thing, and I steeled myself to apologize to Frodo when I saw him next, but I didn't see him. Instead, I heard Orcs, and almost welcomed them-- at least they took my mind off what I had done.  
  
I found the Orcs charging Merry and Pippin; they were standing helpless, they would have been cut down if I hadn't arrived. I caught one Orc's axe, kicked him, drove the axe into his back, threw my dagger into another Orc's neck, and turned to find 20 more Orcs coming down the hill. I caught the first's sword on mine, turned it without thinking and drove my shield into his face. He fell back into the next Orc, they both sprawled, I slashed past another's guard and cleaved his head in two. I took the pause afforded to blow the Horn again, and I heard 'Boromir!' from somewhere to my left. Andúril whirled in, Aragorn wielding it in his peculiarly Elvish fashion, and together, we slew the Orcs, heaping the bodies until we were surrounded by the dead. Finally, when my arms grew weary beyond anything I had experienced, when the Orcs seemed near to victory, Legolas and Gimli arrived and finished the raiding party from behind.  
  
Aragorn sank into a half-crouched position, breathing heavily. I just collapsed onto the ground. My shield had four arrows through it, one of which also pierced my arm, although I only felt the biting pain now. I ignored it, looking around for Merry and Pippin.  
  
"Me- Merry?" I gasped. "Where are you?"  
  
Aragorn glanced up. "Were Merry and Pippin here?" I nodded breathlessly.  
  
"They were attacked by the Orcs, I ran forward to save them," I replied, finally recovering some breath. I decided not to tell them about what really happened with Frodo, not just yet. Legolas was about to say something when a small voice from behind me turned my head.  
  
"Boromir?" Merry was standing there, wide-eyed. I noticed he was still holding his little sword. Pippin stepped out from behind him, looking even more astounded with his mouth open.  
  
"Yes, Merry?"  
  
"That was amazing."  
  
I vaguely nodded my head. "Almost died of exhaustion, though."  
  
"Yes, fighting is a more demanding exercise than most," put in Aragorn. "Especially when it is so unmatched, and stopping would end your life." I nodded.  
  
"But where is the Ringbearer?" Legolas said suddenly, looking up from a discussion with Gimli- those two had become surprisingly good friends in Lothlórien. "And Sam?" I began trying to do something about the arrow in my arm, avoiding Aragorn's eyes.  
  
"Frodo has already left," said Aragorn soberly. "I met him at the foot of Amon Hen, and he was very troubled. I would have brought him back here, but then I noticed Sting glowing; Orcs attacked us, and Legolas, Gimli and I had to fight them before I could come to Boromir's aid." He looked intently at me. "Why did Frodo say 'It has taken Boromir'? Did you try to take the Ring?"  
  
Well, there it was. I don't suppose I should have been so surprised, he is more than twice my age. I stopped touching the arrow-- I wasn't helping anything anyway-- and tried to look up and meet Aragorn's eyes, but somehow I ended up turning away. "I did," I whispered. "I explained how I could defeat Sauron with the Ring, since no-one else dared to use it. He refused. I tried to take it from him, but he put it on and vanished. Then, apparently, he met you, Aragorn."  
  
Everyone was staring at me by the time I finished. I suppose it made sense, here I was confessing that I had tried to ruin the Quest. It still made me wish I wasn't there-- or better yet, that I had never been born.  
  
"I did not understand," I begged. "I tried to take the Ring because I thought I could save us. How can he avoid being captured? We can't possibly fight Sauron if he has the Ring, and we can barely fight him while he does not.  
  
"But I know now that Gandalf was right. We cannot use it, even if we had the knowledge. We would become just like him, and turn even the Free Peoples to the Darkness."  
  
I looked up, now ready to meet Aragorn's eyes. "Forgive me, I beg you."  
  
Aragorn nodded shortly. "You fought bravely, Boromir, and I deem that you have kept your honor-- for now. But you would do better not to follow Frodo into Mordor; you should return to Minas Tirith as you planned. You would only risk yourself succumbing again."  
  
I had to admit he was right. Well, I hadn't done much of a job not succumbing the first time, had I? But now I was quite ready to change the subject. "Could you get this arrow out of my arm?"  
  
"I can, but you should come with us back to the camp," he replied. "And we need to find Sam. Merry and Pippin- no, that's not such a good idea. Legolas and Gimli, find Sam. Tell him he needs to wait for some of us. I'll bind Boromir's wound, and then all those who so wish will follow Frodo across the River. Boromir will make his way to the White City with any who wish to accompany him." 


	2. The Parting of the Fellowship

So that was that. Legolas found Sam by the Anduin, trying to catch Frodo, and so the Ringbearer's plan to sneak off and keep the Ring from tempting the rest of us failed. I could hardly blame him for trying. Aragorn removed the arrow, which had very fortunately stopped just short of crushing my arm bones, and bound up the wound. He used some plant to bathe it, a plant with a pure, refreshing smell that left me almost felt cheerful for a few minutes. Then it was time to decide where to go. As I already knew where I was going, I decided to work on my shield while they argued-- try and repair the holes that Uruk had put in it.

Sam wanted to go with Frodo, of course, and Merry and Pippin followed. Aragorn had already decided to go home with me. So Legolas and Gimli were the only ones who really had anything to decide. Legolas insisted on coming to Gondor, and Gimli just kept reiterating, "It would be faithless to swear and then abandon him now!" They did agree on one thing-- wherever one went, the other would follow.

Finally, Gimli reminded Legolas that the Ringbearer needed protection more than Aragorn and I, and the Elf resigned himself to Mordor. I would have laughed, if my arm wasn't so sore.

"Very well, Legolas and Gimli," Aragorn said solemnly, and I got the feeling he was about to enter Future King Of Gondor Mode again. "Upon you is laid the charge to protect the Ringbearer--" yep, there he went "--and if he should fall, one of you should bear the Ring, as agreed in Imladris. I shall give what counsel seems good to me, for I have some knowledge of the country about the Black Land." He went off to discuss good, better and best routes, and I shared one last meal with Merry and Pippin. Sam and Frodo, unsurprisingly, were unwilling to eat with me.

We gathered around the fire and dipped into Sam's pack. None of us said anything, we had all gotten the feeling we wouldn't see each other again. We ate in silence, and a few minutes later were joined by the others. Merry finally spoke.

"I'd like to thank you again, Boromir, for saving Pip and me." I smiled at him.

"What else am I here for?" Aragorn gave me a strange look when I said that, I still don't know why. He looked like he had something to say, but instead he just ate his food. We all finished, and still said nothing else. When Sam doused the fire and began refilling his vast pack, Gimli came over to me.

"Well, lad," he rumbled, "I hope you reach your homeland safely. We'll need something to come back to, you know." He almost winked at me, and I was reminded uncannily of Uncle Imrahil. I grinned and slapped his back-- lightly, dwarf mail is very hard-- and told him to watch out for the Orcs. He turned away, grim reality already replacing the grin. Legolas was next.

He stepped up to me silently. "Farewell, Boromir," he said sadly. "My heart misgives me, and I fear we shall not meet again." I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just bowed. He bowed in return and slipped off. No bravado from the Elf.

Frodo and Sam walked away to their own boat, and I realized I still had not apologized.

I brushed off Aragorn, who was trying to shoo the Fellowship away quickly and end the goodbyes, and walked down to the shore. It was easy enough to decide I needed to apologize to Frodo, but as I neared the boat, my nervousness and worry grew until I would rather have gotten an arrow through my other arm than face the Hobbit.

Frodo seemed to know what I was doing, even though he wasn't looking at me. Sam watched me through slitted eyes, fingers fidgeting near his sword, but Frodo laid a hand on his shoulder and he stilled. I got to within 5 feet of the boat and then just stood there, shifting uneasily.

"Boromir?" asked Frodo, still looking across the river. I stared at my boots. They really were interesting, you know; I wondered why the mud came up an inch higher on the right one than-- this was pointless. I took a deep breath, but when I spoke, the noble voice I had envisioned came out as a whisper.

"Forgive me, Frodo." I could find no words to express my sorrow, my regret, my shame. The Hobbit's head finally turned.

"I forgive you," he said quietly. "It calls to all of us. Not all of us can resist it." I nodded, my shame deepening. He turned back away, and I faced Sam.

"Can you forgive me, for threatening your master?" Sam looked blackly at me.

"I don't see as how I can do anything different, as Mr. Frodo thinks he can forgive you," Sam muttered. "I'll forgive you, but I'll not hide from you, I'm doubly glad it's Legolas and Gimli what are coming with us." I smiled wryly.

"You're absolutely right," I agreed miserably. "I'm glad I'm leaving too, before I... well, goodbye, Samwise. Take care of your master." Sam snorted, but he did reply. I didn't quite catch it, but it wasn't a curse, so that was something at least.

I felt a profound relief as I walked away from the Ringbearer. I also felt the Ring, but now it was like a pitiful voice crying for help, no longer the seductive power calling to every fiber in my being.

Legolas and Gimli split up their goods-- 4 Hobbits in a boat would have been an absolute disaster-- and called down Merry and Pippin. I dropped to one knee and looked at them carefully.

"Goodbye, you two," I said seriously, with a bit of a grin. "Take care of Frodo and don't let Sam get too worried. And watch after Legolas and Gimli too, they could use some more laughter." They grinned back, that peculiar Hobbit expression that told you they were going to be deliberately happy whatever the circumstances. On impulse, I hugged them at once.

"Goodbye, Boromir," Merry whispered. "We will never forget you saved us." Pippin just sniffed a little. Then Aragorn relented and gave them a better goodbye.

"Farewell, Shire-folk," he smiled down at them. "I have learned what strength there is in your kind, and you may succeed where the mighty would fail." I may have imagined the flicker of his eyes towards me, but I did not resent it, not yet. "Keep your loyalty to Frodo, and may the blessings of the Valar go with you and protect you in the Land of Shadow." Merry and Pippin bowed, and then it was time.

Aragorn stood watching the boats cut their way across the lake. I felt a profound sense of loss, watching the 6 people I had come to love and respect paddling away, into all-but-certain death. The simple act, crossing the river, held such poignancy for me in that moment-- I blinked hard, unwilling to let Aragorn see my tears. We stood there until they reached the far shore. I briefly considered blowing the Horn in farewell, but I recalled Elrond's admonition at the start of the Quest and decided not to announce their arrival.

As Legolas and then Gimli arrived at the far shore and began hiding the boats, Aragorn placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. "Namarië," he whispered, and turned away. I waited a moment longer, until their Lothlórien cloaks disappeared into the trees, then followed Aragorn.


	3. Getting to Osgiliath

_Whatever his lineage may be, he sets a vicious pace,_ I grumbled in my mind. The Ranger had not paused for a minute since setting out. This was especially unpleasant since he had decided, at the last second, to snag the final boat for use after the Falls. The terrain around Rauros was far nastier than that around Sarn Gebir, and only the boat's Elvish durability kept it in one piece on our way down.

In fact, all our Elvish gifts served us very well; at one point in the climb, mine saved both our lives. Aragorn had preceded me, and was hanging onto the boat while I followed; but my boot slipped on the rock, my hand reached out to find pure air, and if my belt hadn't caught on another point of rock I would have fallen and knocked Aragorn off as well. The Lady's belt held amazingly well, for being merely gold, and I whispered quick thanks to Galadriel and Eru before continuing down.

We reached the river after two days. My back felt about to simply crack, and even Aragorn looked haggard, when we camped for the night.

Next morning, we carried the boat to the river bank. Rauros thundered only a few hundred feet upstream, but this beach was relatively calm, owing largely to a huge and ancient oak tree fallen into the water. We loaded our water-sensitive gear into the boat and I waded out, holding one end.

The beach seemed calm, anyway-- as I got deeper into the river, a sudden rip current caught me and plunged my head under the water. I surfaced with a splutter to find Aragorn running after the boat, saying some rather un-kingly things about it: the current had caught it, too, and pulled it right out of his hands.

I dragged myself ashore as quickly as I could, but all those clothes were real trouble when wet. I managed to step on a root or something, too, and it pierced right through my boot and set me limping.

I clambered out and started after Aragorn. I found him behind a large, nearby rock, surveying something with acute distaste. I took one look and swore.

The boat was there, undamaged of course. All our equipment was there too, and that was a blessing. But that rip current had jammed it between two large rocks-- moreover, said rocks sat 30 feet from the shore, completely without stepping stones to reach them.

"This is not acceptable," I growled, staring at the stupid boat. Stupid boat, stupid current, stupid Aragorn not going fast enough, stupid me to get knocked down... I swore again, not knowing what else to do. Aragorn looked up.

"If only Sam were here, he'd get us over with his rope, but I don't think I carry any rope," he told me.

"If only Ulmo were here, he'd just hand us the boat, but I don't think he is," I snarled back. Aragorn lifted one warning eyebrow and turned back to surveying the boat. I think he was almost amused by my reaction, and that only made me madder.

"Or maybe the future King can just command the water to part for us," I continued.

"Peace, Boromir," he snapped, amusement gone. "Perhaps the Son of Gondor can fly out there? Failing that, perhaps he can make a useful suggestion?-- but I begin to doubt it."

I gaped. Here was that thrice-cursed boat, that we'd almost killed ourselves getting down the cliff, stuck useless in the middle of the Anduin, and he was going to bicker with me? I folded my arms and stared back upstream, mostly not to look at the aggravating Ranger any more.

After a moment, Aragorn touched me on my shoulder-- a little more forcefully than necessary, I grumped to myself, massaging it-- and pointed up the river.

"Perhaps we could ride a branch from that tree down to the boat?" he suggested.

"Why not just swim out to it?" I countered. "We could start from the end of the tree, it's almost as far out as the rocks."

"Can you swim well enough?" he asked, raising an eyebrow again. I was getting annoyed by that trick; I could never manage to raise one by itself, and it seemed to be Aragorn's primary means of communication.

"I can swim fine, can't you?" That took him off-balance.

"I can swim quite well, but a branch would be prudent in a strong current such as this. Even I would not presume to dive in without something to aid me."

'Even I'? Like he could swim better than I could. I snorted. "Is it prudence, or is it weakness?" Then, most definitely not demonstrating the former, I headed off to the end of the tree and jumped in.

I was dimly aware of Aragorn calling to me, probably more because I knew he would than because I could hear him, but I struck out strongly for the rocks. I only needed to adjust course a few feet towards mid-stream and I rushed straight for the cleft between the two.

I had a few seconds to wish I had listened to Aragorn as I approached the rocks: they had no visible handholds, and I wondered how I would get into the boat.

The boat was jammed a few feet into the passage, before the rocks became too high and hid it from sight, but those few feet left me in a narrow cleft, unable to push myself up, unable to maneuver enough to climb into the boat, and unable to scramble onto either of the large rocks. I muttered a multi-use word from Gimli and decided to see if things looked different on the other side.

I tried to swim under the boat, but the cleft narrowed too rapidly, and I was forced to turn back. Then panic set in. In this narrow channel, the current increased tenfold, and I couldn't push against it! I couldn't swim up, either, the boat blocked my path. I, Boromir II, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, was going to drown in a river.

A smidgen of intelligence held on somewhere, though, and I thought of swimming down. Only option left, really. I tried it, and the channel opened out much more, enough to where the current could be resisted. As the panic receded, I fought my way back and then up.

When I broke the surface, the branch with Aragorn riding it nearly removed my eye: he had taken his own advice. "Blast it, Aragorn!" I sputtered, fending off the tip. He just reached out one wiry arm and pulled me up onto the branch. I shook my head, clearing my eyes, and investigated the situation. Aragorn had gotten the branch wedged against the two rocks, and now we had something to push off from.

"That was pointless foolishness," he remarked, eyeing me. Normally I would have admitted it and thanked him for coming to my aid. Normally I would have been happy to have someone to help me. Right now, the Ranger just struck me as the most arrogant show-off I had yet met.

So, instead, I snapped, "My perceived plight did not necessitate the infallible Lord Aragorn rushing to my rescue." Before he could take me to task for being a jerk-- again-- I turned and shoved off against the branch to get onto the nearest rock. This sent the branch, with its burden of Aragorn diving down, and the shock on his disappearing face gave me a most ignoble satisfaction.

As Aragorn discovered the powerful current for himself, I set about inspecting the boat. Incredibly, nothing had even been wetted, much less lost. As I began contemplating how to dislodge our craft, Aragorn heaved himself onto the other rock.

He finished panting, wiped his eyes, then turned on me like lightning. "Control your temper, Boromir," he snarled, "or you may not be so blessed the next time temptation calls."

I gave him my famous I'm-the-Captain-of-Gondor-who-are-you? response. Unfortunately, it's a rather vibrant expression, and Aragorn's eyes narrowed dangerously. I momentarily considered going for my weapon, but while I had never confronted the Ranger blade to blade, I had seen him fight and had no doubt he could beat me. Instead, I knelt down by the boat and started trying to work my fingers in, ignoring him completely.

Aragorn must have given up on me, since after a second he knelt with a sigh to copy my efforts on the other side. After a few minutes, we succeeded in wiggling it out. Now to return it to the river...

Clearly, pushing it back against the current was not an option. The two rocks mounted up steadily on this side, but downstream they tumbled jaggedly to the turbulent effluence of the channel, so that was out too. Aragorn smirked at me, and though he spoke no word, the challenge was clear. Would the Captain of Gondor be able to get the boat into this current without it upsetting?

"Good question," I muttered. Aragorn-- you guessed it-- raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. I resisted the urge to push him back into the river and stood, thinking. I also discovered a habit I didn't even know I had-- apparently, I was much given to fidgeting with my shield strap, as I found my hand repeatedly straying to where the strap would have been. I shook my head and tried to focus.

"Although it would be best to simply set off from here," I began, "I think our best choice is this: you, Aragorn, swim to shore, then go down to where those rocks reach out into the stream. I'll send the boat down to you as soon as you're ready." Aragorn nodded, his smirk widening, and with another spark of anger I realized he'd already reached the exact same conclusion. He just wanted to see if I would be able to. "Well, go on," I pressed, mentally determining to be nothing worse than 'annoyed' no matter what kind of a snot he acted.

Aragorn retrieved his branch and got back in the river, smirk still firmly attached. I waited next to the boat, observing as he floated to the rocks then scrambled onto a good flat one. I tugged the boat into the river and had it snatched from my hands, but I watched until Aragorn-- thank the Valar-- caught the boat before leaping into the water to strike out for shore.

I hauled myself out of the water, for the third time in one hour; I desperately hoped this didn't foreshadow the rest of our trip down the Anduin. Aragorn struck a pose while waiting for me, and I noted it didn't even take one bit of effort on his part. Natural. Remembering I was only 'annoyed', I didn't snarl at him.

"Good work," I said with something approaching a smile. Aragorn surveyed me for a moment, then nodded.

"Get in."

Now really, what else was I going to do?


	4. Down the Anduin

Aragorn said very little while we rode down the Anduin; nothing more than instructions on when to paddle. I mostly stewed the whole time, running over how blasted obnoxious the man could be. And he would be my king someday-- at least, if he survived... I shook my head, that path of thoughts led to an even worse end than taking the Ring. I looked to the front of the boat; Aragorn's back returned a blank gaze, although his posture denoted ongoing disapproval.

I reached down and fiddled with my pack. The sun had just passed the meridian, and I felt about ready to eat something. Aragorn could handle the boat fine by himself, this part of the river presented no obstacle.

I untied the straps and lifted the top flap of my sack. Let's see: oilskin-wrapped diary from Faramir (along with a small twinge of guilt-- it was still all but empty), lembas in a leaf, my lucky dagger, more lembas in a leaf, a whetstone, another leaf with lembas inside it, cloth and oil for maintenance of my sword and shield, a lembas-containing leaf, and finally! a strip of sun-dried seasoned beef. I never did like lembas, it was too good to be true-- a bite of cake to keep you strong for a day? Must be a catch. But good, tough, Gondorian-stock beef... I settled back in the sun, chewing happily. After a moment, I grinned to hear Aragorn sniff.

"What's that smell?" he inquired, turning almost halfway around.

"Beef jerky."

"It smells like an entire cow," he replied irritably. "Do you not think Orcs can scent that? You might as well hold a giant flag up with 'prey for Orcs' on it."

"Sounds like a good idea." I knew I shouldn't do it, but baiting Aragorn was really very fun, and by now I knew well enough how to get at him. "My sword hand could use some exercise."

Aragorn muttered something, grabbed his oar and gave several harsh strokes. I chuckled-- but quietly, I was dry and didn't plan on getting splashed at the moment-- and stretched out in the boat. Aragorn kept muttering from the prow and I looked idly around the land we were passing through.

Currently, the Anduin still passed by the fields of Rohan to the West, but to the East the marshes of the Nindalf seeped away its water, slowing the current. I had never been here before, but could recall the map well enough; the marshes must be the Nindalf, and the mouths of the-- Entwash, I think, were coming up on our right. Then Cair Andros.

I frowned. Would Aragorn plan to visit the garrison there, or continue past it? The river was treacherous around Cair Andros. Aragorn did not appear the least bit interested in talking to me, now that I had finished that oh-so-unwise beef jerky...

I yawned and stretched. Aragorn twitched slightly, and I half-expected him to tell me off for making noise, but he stayed silent. I almost felt I could drift off to sleep: the boat fiasco added to the long climb at Rauros left me still exhausted. But even a Ranger such as Aragorn could only look one direction at a time, and my knowledge of the countryside could become important. No, I needed to stay awake.

I sighed and decided I really ought to put something in Faramir's diary. I knew the Elves fascinated him, and he'd hoped for an extensive volume on the Fair Folk and their ways, but to be honest I'd forgotten about his gift since-- since Rivendell, probably. Now I retrieved it and sat contemplating it.

The diary was plain, dark brown leather, an embossed seagull the only decoration to distinguish front from back. I smiled slightly, turning it in my hands-- were my brother a book I imagined he would be like this one, albeit with far more written inside. No frills, but very fine quality; even my limited knowledge of books and their making told me Faramir had spent a not-inconsequential sum on this gift. I opened it and thumbed through the first three pages, all I had managed to write.  
  


July 8, 3018

Now in Rohan. Lost my horse while crossing the river, but I know Éomer, the king's nephew, and am on my way to his dwelling; he may lend me a horse. Country is strangely empty-- two days walking and not a single herd seen yet. Fire is getting low, better prepare for sleep.  
  


July 17, 3018

Éomer came through. Fine horse physically, slight attitude problem. Seemed to think I'm a stable hand and not supposed to actually ride him. Disabused him of this notion. Still only one herd spotted; Éomer tells me Orcs are crossing the river. He seems strangely withdrawn from the Éomer I saw last; some problem at Edoras. Leaving tomorrow morning.  
  


August 2, 3018

Reached the Gap of Rohan. Strange smoke rising from Orthanc, that old watch tower. Some wizard lives there, Father thinks well of him but I have never seen him. Must be doing something. Toyed with the idea of visiting him, but don't know how much longer it will take to reach Rivendell. Need to keep moving.  
  


August 9, 3018

Following the mountains north. Rivendell in the mountains far north, somewhere not too far from a river, or so said Father. Planned to get more exact directions from the locals, but no locals seen since Rohan.  
  


August 27, 3018

Found a river. Not far enough north though. Still no-one met.  
  


October 25, 3018

Arrived in Rivendell last night. Elves not very respectful, but I didn't take it to heart-- they are the Elder Race, after all. Faramir has always wanted to meet Elves, but somehow I was never that intrigued. They seem distant, and when they talk to you there is no forgetting how much higher they are than you; at least, how much higher they imagine they are. Elrond is the Lord of Rivendell, and rather more respectful than the others, but that makes sense. He is half-human, after all. I'm some kind of many-many-many-times-grand nephew to him.

He told me it was a very good thing I arrived when I did. He's holding a Council today, and I'm the only Man here that I've met. Elves are attractive enough, but they certainly don't look like any use fighting Orcs, from what I've seen. Perhaps these Elves have been protected by this valley for so long they no longer worry about battle.

Despite the apparent weakness of most of the inhabitants in the arts of war, there is an indefinable Power in this valley. Maybe one of the effects of a ruler who is half-Elf, half-Man.

Here's the messenger, the hour of the Council is come.  
  


November 4, 3018

The Council was very interesting. Many people arrived there, including Elves from out in the East somewhere who actually looked halfway dangerous, and Dwarves from even more distant lands. Mithrandir was there also. Father never did like him that much, but Faramir trailed him around whenever he came to Minas Tirith; I didn't shun or follow him, but it seems he really does do a lot of things out in the Wild. I don't think I'll put down anything else I learned there, it was really too much. I did, however, get my question answered.

Seemed everything in the dream was explained more by current events than by any responses I received. Another Man was there, one of the Rangers of the North; I think I heard once that they were the remnants of the North Kingdom. His name is Aragorn; he says he has the Sword that was broken, and that he is the heir to the throne of Gondor. I hope he does come with me to Minas Tirith. Quite apart from his claim of kingship, which I plan to investigate soon (many of the Elves seem to know him), he looks like a hardy fighter, and his charisma is undeniable. He would be a mighty aid to us.

The Halfling referred to, literally, a fellow half my height named 'Frodo.' He, and his three companions, are very interesting fellows, almost like well-brought-up children-- disrespectful at times, but not meaning anything by it. He was the one to bring Isildur's Bane.

Father had no clue what that might be. But Frodo produced a ring, and Mithrandir's story told that it was the One Ring. Everyone seemed to agree that the only course of action would be to destroy it, even Aragorn, who I'd looked to for some sense. I tried to reason with them, but they were set, and I am become one of the companions for Frodo on his Quest.

If, as they say, destroying it would defeat Sauron, that makes good sense. But if we go to Minas Tirith, we can regroup and use the Ring to defeat Sauron's armies. Then go and destroy it; Barad-Dûr is too powerful to attack. This, I think, is the complete plan, although they did not state it in so much detail. Such a weapon must not be thrown aside before we get at least some use out of it!  
  


I sighed. I had been blind, even then. Reading this diary only reminded me of my foolishness; even the way the Elves seemed so obnoxious twisted at my conscience. Above all, my reasoning about the Ring was like reading the transcript of a drunkard's thought process; I hoped I would never encounter such Evil again.

I glanced up and found that my reading had taken up nearly a quarter of an hour; we had floated on down past a turn in the river, and far ahead I could see the first entering stream of the Entwash. Aragorn was still ignoring me, though, so I turned back to the book. I reached into the slim pouch attached to the spine of the book and pulled out the pen Faramir had included. I'd picked up a new inkpot in Rivendell, and fished that out of the bag now and began to write.  
  


February 29, 3019

Much has happened. No time to write here. In boat on Anduin. Aragorn acting haughty, making cutting remarks. Hobbits, Gimli and Legolas gone to Mordor. Aragorn and I going to Minas Tirith. Mithrandir  
  


I stopped writing for a moment. Mithrandir... true, I had never looked up to him as Faramir did. But I had never mistrusted him as Father did, either. And at the Council he had shown himself to be far greater than even Faramir had guessed, and greater still when he led us through Moria: when we watched him, helpless, fall in battle with the Demon. The hard sorrow was gone, the tears had been cried in the Dimrill Dale and in Lórien. But the ache held on, and I hesitated before writing the next line; I wanted it to be a remembrance of the wizard, of all he had done for us, rather than a mere note in a diary, bereft of emotion.  
  


Mithrandir gave himself in Moria, fell in battle with a Demon of fire and darkness to save our lives.  
  


I fiddled with my pen, then found I had lost all interest in writing. Thinking about Mithrandir put me in an understandably melancholy mood; I used a flap from my pack to blot the page, then tucked the diary back into its oilskin protection.

Ahead of me, Aragorn stirred. "I did not know you were given to books, Boromir." He sounded almost apologetic.

I smiled sadly. "I am not, to tell the truth. Book knowledge has its place, but in times of war that place is behind knowledge of war and combat. Faramir has far more book-learning than I." Aragorn nodded without looking back.

"What do you write?" I squirmed slightly. I had no interest in Aragorn reading my diary, small though it was, with its shameful statements; nor did I wish to discuss it with him.

"It is nothing. A diary Faramir gave me when I left; he wished to know of the Elves. But I have been remiss in writing in it; so I wrote an entry today." Aragorn nodded; though he said nothing I suspected he would try to continue the conversation, and to head him off I picked up my oar. "Do you think we should paddle some to try and shorten our journey?"

He didn't answer for a moment. "I think we should conserve our strength, above all," he replied after thinking. "We have no knowledge of the situation in Gondor, and know not how we may be needed when we arrive there. Better to arrive slightly later and ready to fight than arrive early and be useless from exhaustion. However," as I shifted restlessly, "arriving too late and well-rested will serve us not if the hour of greatest need is already past. We can paddle somewhat, but we need no mad dash down the river."

I shrugged. Aragorn reminded me a little of that saying I had heard from the Hobbits: "Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both yes and no." Right in the middle, that was his answer.

"We shall most likely reach Cair Andros in four days, if we go at the same pace we set before Amon Hen. Was that place still garrisoned when you set out, or had you pulled back to protect your closer borders?"

"Still garrisoned," I replied thoughtfully. "But, Aragorn, that reminds me of something I meant to ask you. Do you plan to take the boat through the river there? It is not entirely safe, though far less dangerous than Sarn Gebir. And are we going to Osgiliath, the true frontier? Or straight to Minas Tirith?"

"Paddling a boat through a war zone would hardly be... prudent," Aragorn answered, and I could have sworn he was smirking at my question. "We shall find more information at Cair Andros, if it has remained free." I nodded.

"Since you don't seem worried about making the best time possible," I offered, "do you think I could get some rest? There's to be no looming danger, and you appear to have everything well in hand." He nodded, and I laid myself down and deliberately drained the cares from my mind. After a minute I was asleep: the first completely peaceful sleep I'd had since Lórien.  
  


-Author's note-

Wow, the last chapter was really popular! Thanks everyone who reviewed! I liked it best too-- whether that means anything or not...

Someone wanted to know about Merry and Pippin: this is just a story about Boromir. As tempting as following Frodo's new (and improved?) story would be, I'm sticking with the Son of Gondor. No POV changed or anything.

Also, I've decided to discipline myself from now on (shock!) and update once a week, every Friday afternoon around 4 p.m. Since I'm in France, 6 hours ahead of American readers, and FF.net takes up to 24 hours to post the update, that'll mean it will be readable no later than, hmm... 8 a.m. on Saturday morning for all on the Eastern seaboard. BUT I am also preparing to leave for vacations come the weekend; vacations will be two weeks long, then I shall return (hopefully). So no updates during that time-- I'm sure I'll have plenty of scribblings of some vague value from that time, though. So there should be plenty of updates the week after. Namarië!


	5. Camp

5  
  


Death, darkness, falling into water. Where was I? Oh, there I was, far down below, small as an ant. Was I dead? I was, wasn't I? I was in a boat. A silvery gray boat. I was lying in a silvery gray boat and I was dead. Faramir was sad, Father was sad; an odd sort of pleasure that they were so sad for my death. Water again, hitting my face. Again. Where was it coming from? Again.

Water! I shot bolt upright in the stern of the boat, water dripping from my beard. Aragorn was looking intently into my face.

"You were quite difficult to wake, Boromir," he observed drily. I blinked, trying to get my bearings, and ignored him. Something was in my back-- I arched gingerly and felt around under me, to find my sword had somehow twisted around behind me and dug its hilt into my spine while I slept. I winced and pulled it back around to the side, where it belonged, Aragorn waiting the whole time.

"Are you quite finished?" I rolled my shoulders and yawned, feeling the last of sleep leaving me.

"Yes, sorry." I looked up. "What is it?"

"I have been trying to waken you for the past two minutes," he replied. "You have slept until evening." I looked around then and found he was right; the sun had sunk just below the reeds to the West, and darkness came quickly in February.

"Sorry," I said again, sheepish this time. "I don't usually have that much trouble waking up. In fact, I don't usually have any trouble waking up..." Aragorn studied me, then nodded.

"The Ring's influence on you is all but gone. I am pleased you have been able to sleep well; I would venture you did not sleep so well since Lórien?"

I thought for a moment. Well, except for that dream at the end, I probably hadn't slept that well since- "More likely, not since Rivendell," I replied. "And you're right, I'm sure it is the Ring being gone."

"Well," he responded brusquely, now that I turned out not to be ill, "we will land for the night soon. You can take the first watch." I looked back at the overgrown banks and frowned.

"Where will we land?" Aragorn pointed at an upcoming spit of land that jutted out right into our path.

"There should be a dry area in the middle of that peninsula, we'll camp there." I looked questioningly at him.

"How do you know there's a dry spot there?" Aragorn smiled slightly.

"I have been here before," he answered. I frowned again.

"When?"

"You remember the Council in Rivendell?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes..."

He raised that much-overused eyebrow. "Clearly you do not remember very well. I explained how I hunted Gollum-" I did remember, then.

"Oh, that's right." I waved a dismissive hand at him. "And you camped here, I take it?"

"Indeed."

"Well, that's good." Then I remembered another difficulty. "And wood? Reeds do not make good lasting fuel."

"We won't need a fire," replied Aragorn, somewhat impatiently by now. "We do not actually wish the Orcs to visit us, remember? Now, stroke three times on the left side and we'll land right on the shore." I noticed with a bit of a start that our argument-- well, really, all my questions-- had taken us almost beyond the proposed landing. I obeyed; a moment later, the boat slipped right into the reeds as if through a curtain.

--

I sat by the fire, poking it idly with the end of an arrow; Aragorn had managed to break it somewhere on our trip down the Anduin. Right now, the mighty Ranger was out hunting us something to eat, hopefully with an undamaged arrow. I smirked to myself. The mental image of Aragorn trying to shoot an arrow like this one, and the perplexed expression I imagined on his face, was quite a picture.

He'd come through, this time; after the reeds, there was indeed dry land, a small circle about ten feet across surrounded entirely by stalks higher than either of us. A perfect campsite, secluded, hidden, quiet, and since it was in winter, no insects. I imagined the gnats that would be present here in the summer and winced involuntarily.

Just then I caught a soft muttered word, something in-- Elvish? Aragorn slipped through the reeds across from me, somehow having avoided setting them waving. His bow was in his hands, an arrow on the string, but when I made to question him he shook his head; his eyes ordered silence. I sat back slightly and watched, confused. He crept past me and disappeared into the reeds behind, the reeds between the camp and the river.

I turned to watch where he'd vanished. After a long minute he returned, walking normally (for Aragorn at least-- I swear, if he tried to stomp he'd have trouble waking a mouse). I raised my eyebrows in question, and he shrugged.

"I heard something across the river. Nothing has any business there other than Orcs, and I thought it wise to investigate. However, it was a deer who has somehow crossed the Anduin." I grinned.

"Venison sounds good!" He looked at me oddly.

"The deer is too far for me to shoot it, and we could hardly carry the meat with us down the river." Duh. I grumbled something to the effect of "could've tried," but Aragorn just smirked slightly and headed off into the plants again. After a moment he returned, carrying an arrow with one, two, three waterfowl stuck on it. My eyes lit up, and my disappointed mouth got working again.

I took the bird he offered me and set about sharpening my knife. Once ready, I skinned and prepared the bird; Aragorn smirked at me from across the fire, and I scowled to see him already cooking his second one. That insufferable Ranger-- wasn't there something he couldn't do better than me? I irritably thrust the broken arrow through my bird and held it over the fire.

When we finished off the third bird, I cleaned up while Aragorn prepared his bedroll; he stretched out on it with a yawn and a sigh, and I turned away to watch towards the river. The fire began to die, but the night was comparatively warm, near to the equalizing Anduin. I let it sink and sat, thinking. I gradually became aware, however, that Aragorn was awake as well: his eyes were fixed on the small of my back. I ignored him, but he'd made me lose my train of thought quite thoroughly, and I just sat, waiting for him to speak or turn away.

"Boromir." Finally, he did something. I stirred, as if I had not been paying attention to him at all, and turned towards him.

"Aragorn?" He was looking into my eyes now. I paused; he looked like he had something to say that he feared would upset me. "Yes?" He shifted under his coverings.

"Boromir, I would like to speak to you about your... conduct, this morning." I tilted my head, pretended not to understand.

"What about it?" He rolled his eyes slightly.

"You know, Boromir. You showed a great lack of respect." I protested immediately.

"I respect you, Aragorn! You know I do, how could I not?" He eyed me for a moment.

"No, you do not, really. You listen to me, and you recognize my skill with a blade, but you do not respect me as you ought. I do not wish power over any man for the sake of it, but if I come to Gondor I will be King. I would not have you oppose me." I cocked my head.

"How could I oppose you? You are the rightful heir! And I have never disrespected you." A traitorous little voice in the back of my head began reminding me of the thoughts I'd had out on those rocks, though. I pursed my lips.

"You have, Boromir." A gentle voice now, like a father or even a mother with her child. I twisted my mouth this way and that, turned my head. But it was true and I knew it. Finally I spoke.

"You are right, Aragorn." I sighed. "You have always been right." He chuckled mirthlessly at that, but said nothing. "Forgive me for my disrespect and my doubts." Aragorn nodded.

"As I said, I do not wish power over you. I am what I was born as, and such is my responsibility. In the same way, you are who you were born as. I hope you will not resent me." He rolled over. "Good night, Boromir." After less than a minute his steady sleep-breathing began, and I was left alone with my thoughts.

Resent him? Well, I had, more or less, the whole time I'd been with him. Not that he was taking something that would have been mine... "How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?" "Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor ten thousand years would not suffice."

From there my thought turned to Father, and how he might react when Aragorn arrived, or news arrived, as it would if we stopped at Cair Andros. For all his words of loyalty to a nonexistent king, I wondered whether his response would not be to refuse to acknowledge the claim, to deny Aragorn's lineage, when faced with the man who would take the crown. Faramir, I imagined, would be absolutely thrilled with Aragorn. He was never interested in being Steward, anyway. But Father, now-- and, I realized, finally looking into my own heart, I myself shared his attitude. I faced the thought and, in my mind, it took form: a twisted, hateful, shrunken version of myself.

"You've always wanted to be Steward. Who wouldn't? The same power as a King, the same ability. A small difference in ceremony!" The apparition spat. "Ceremony-- useless. And what is his lineage, anyway? You are descended from Elros Half-Elven as surely as he is. He just happens to have some powerful people backing him. Those Elves, Mithrandir... they aren't here any more, though, are they? All he has is you." The petty version of myself shuffled forward and whispered, "Father won't want him. He'll want his favorite son to take the rod of the Steward. You could push him over, though, he would hearken to you, you could make him see Aragorn's claim is right... or you could support him and get Aragorn thrown into prison for insolence." The eyes glowed. "And what will happen if Aragorn becomes king? Will you and Father be so very much welcome in his court? I don't think so. Rivals, one-time lords, possible plotters. You'll have so many people dogging your every footstep, watching your every meeting, you'd not believe it. You'll never escape. But-" the apparition reached out now, touched me with insensible fingers "-you can end it now. You've seen the way he leads men. If he reaches Minas Tirith he will gain such a following the city will cry out for him to be king if you and Father deny him. He should not be allowed to reach the city. He must not be allowed to reach the city." My horrid double stepped back and smiled, licked his lips.

I stared in revulsion, unable to speak. The reflection smirked at me and opened his mouth to continue, but mercifully I found my voice. "Begone," I snarled. I'd listened to myself for the first time ever, and I did not like what I heard. "Begone and trouble me no more!" It sneered, then smiled again and bowed insolently.

"Think about what I have told you," it whispered. "You know it is true!" It vanished.

I blinked. My sword was in my hand, I had risen to my feet. I shook my head; clearly I was not quite as well-rested as I had thought. Aragorn stirred, but when I said nothing he returned to slumber. I sheathed my sword and sat back down, watching the reeds round about our camp, and waited for the dawn.


	6. Cair Andros

6

The next two days passed without noticeable incident, until the morning of the fourth day. Aragorn had slept some in the boat the day before, and so he stayed up that night, guiding us down the River while I slept in the bows.

I awoke early and found my face pressed against the wooden edge of the boat. I lifted it up, blinked, and turned my eyes down-river. Then I blinked again.

A ship was sailing right up the water towards us, a great tall ship with a spray of water coming up from the prow. Though still distant, I could make out an actual tower, looking almost like stone, standing up from the front of the ship; the flag of Gondor flew from the summit. But there was no mast, no sails, no oars; and the ship didn't seem to be getting closer any faster than the countryside.

My sleepy brain pulled itself together and made sense out of what I was seeing. Of course-- that was Cair Andros itself, an easily-defended and powerful fortress set right in the middle of the Anduin. Aragorn noticed me return to wakefulness.

"Yes, we have reached Cair Andros. I stopped as soon as I could see it, last night, and checked to see what flag it flew; as you can see, it is indeed still held by your people. Fortunately so, for our supplies could use replenishment, and we need news even more than food."

"I don't know how much news we will receive," I replied. "Cair Andros is not exactly one of our nearest outposts; we do not check up on it as often as we would like. Supplies I doubt not, but information is likely to be antiquated."

"We shall see," Aragorn answered cooly. Just then a guard noticed us, in our Elvish boat, and we heard his clear voice from the tower.

"What are you? Declare yourselves, or we will be forced to fire on you!"

"I am a friend," I called back. "I am Boromir, your Captain! With me is Aragorn, a Ranger of the North."

A moment of silence, during which I suppose the guard peered at us closer, then, "My lord Boromir! How honored we are to receive you! But how come you and your companion on such a path, and in such a vessel? Is that not Elvish work?"

"It is indeed," I responded, somewhat miffed that the guard should know anything about Elves when I had been so ignorant. "Is there a landing on the island where we may beach our boat?"

"Yes, there is a dock on the larboard side. That is-- on your right, m'lord."

Aragorn guided the boat over close to the western shore of the Anduin. I turned and fixed his gaze.

"How shall I introduce you, Aragorn? Do you wish me to make your lineage known, or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

"Neither," he replied promptly. "I would rather the news of my identity reached Minas Tirith with me, rather than a messenger sent before to worry your father." I was slightly confused by this: why not get a messenger, to have a proper welcome? Then I remembered the... conversation, almost, I'd had with myself that night. Father might indeed prepare a welcome for Aragorn-- a strong guard or two and an available cell. I shuddered at the thought. I was really not looking forward to Father and Aragorn's meeting.

Now the mighty rock of Cair Andros reared up just to our left as the River split and flowed on to the Sea. If I recalled history correctly, the fortress once covered the whole island, and a small but lively town within its walls had made it nearly a little Minas Tirith of the North. In these days, however, trade had slowed to a slow drip, and the townsmen had died of the Plague or returned to safer, more fertile lands.

The great fortress, although well-built enough to resist falling into disrepair for a long Age yet, was now all but abandoned. The one time I had visited, making the rounds with Father when he still left Minas Tirith regularly, the guards manned only the upriver tower. Years ago, when Cair Andros was still an important and valuable asset, that tower had been merely the diplomacy area, with a richly decorated room for receiving guests and many functionless chambers. Now, the storerooms and armories and even forges of the other areas were forgotten, and the ambassador's rooms filled their place. Overall, a somewhat dreary reminder of our slow fading. That contributed to Cair Andros' unpopularity as a post.

Aragorn guided the boat near the rushing stones, keeping near enough to be ready to duck into the little harbor somewhere along this side. I held my oar ready to fend us off if we slipped too close to the rocks, but Aragorn's skill kept us at a safe distance. The rocks, when I could take a moment to look closer, appeared to all be worked stones even down below the water's edge; rather than a fortress built on the island, it was an island turned into a fortress.

A spur of rock reached out ahead of us, and I gripped my oar in preparation for a quick push, but we found the spur to be the breakwater for the harbor on its back side. After passing around it, we found a calm bay with steep walls and a wooden pier around the entire interior perimeter; a small guard of honor had already assembled at the gateway into the castle proper.

Aragorn slipped the boat up to the pier and backpedaled perfectly to bring us to an exact stop. I grimaced slightly at another demonstration of proficiency and threw a short rope to the man waiting to tie us up.

He caught the rope and quickly knotted us into place, grinning at me the whole time like a boy playing at soldier. I gave him the commanding eye and he subsided, but I knew he would readily become my shadow as long as I was in Cair Andros. He was not the first; he would not be the last.

The captain of the fortress stepped forward as soon as Aragorn and I had extricated ourselves from the boat. The Ranger stood back behind me, head bowed slightly in deference. The captain threw back his hood and revealed:

"Mablung!" I exclaimed, smiling. "How are you, my old friend? I thought you were still in Osgiliath, with my brother?" Grinning back, he shook his head.

"No sir, I was sent here as a messenger. However, the acting captain was lower rank than I, so I was in command for as long as I remained here." He beckoned to Aragorn and the others, and our little group followed him through the low arch and into a smooth tunnel, him still talking.

"I had planned to leave this afternoon, return to Minas Tirith to deliver news to the Steward and then take my new orders. But now, of course, I don't need to go to the Citadel to get orders." He paused in his talking and watched me expectantly.

I took several more paces before responding. "You knew of my mission, Mablung?" He nodded brusquely.

"Yes sir, but not of what it entailed exactly. Rivendell? The Sword-That-Was-Broken? Something of that sort."

"Correct. So now that I have returned I need to go directly to Minas Tirith. Father will want to know the whole story of my journey there and back, and above all I want to see Faramir again." Mablung nodded again; now we had passed out of the tunnel and stood in a sloping courtyard, under the shadow of the north tower.

"And your orders for us, for me?" Mablung asked.

I looked around the courtyard. Only four soldiers caught my eye, but they had been arranged as efficiently as I ever could have: three towards the Black Land, one toward home. Several of the doors looked only a few days old, freshly hewn wood, and they were all carefully closed and locked. Now that we had ceased talking I could hear a rhythmic metallic pounding, from what I assumed was the blacksmith. I shrugged.

"Carry on, captain. I see nothing you are remiss in, you can return to Minas Tirith as you planned; in fact, I expect you to return with me." Mablung nodded and murmured the required pleasantries about being honored and etc. Then he caught my eye and gave me a questioning twitch of the head towards Aragorn. The Ranger had remained just within the tunnel entrance, scanning the courtyard and the walls with the same silent intensity I had come to expect from him. I shrugged again.

"That is Aragorn, a Ranger of the North-- the Rangers are the last remnants of the Arnorians," I added, seeing Mablung's pretending-to-understand-but-actually-lost look.

"He rides with us, then?"

"Yes, he has offered his sword in defense of Minas Tirith and our people. His fighting skill and leadership abilities are quite impressive, from what I saw on my journey with him; I would rather bring him to Father and give him a command in the army than set him as a recruit somewhere. I'm sure that Father would make him a captain at least if he met him."

Mablung shrugged slightly, then waved to the other soldiers. They nodded as one and split up to their previous duties, all except the one admirer: he stood right where he was before, vaguely grinning at me.

"Do you want to come inside and learn more news of the times?" Mablung continued, including Aragorn with a tilt of the head. "Lunch, such as it is, should be served in a few hours at midday. I am sure we can fill the time between now and then with tales." We nodded and he set off for a set of double doors nearby, us following. Aragorn fell into step with me, but a few paces back; almost like a dog heeling. I didn't need to look to know my new shadow was heeling Aragorn.

Mablung shoved the doors open and we strode in. I looked around and realized this must have been the ambassadorial hall: the arms of every king, even back to Elros (!!GET RIGHT NAME!!), hung around the walls; the mighty roof beams suspended an elaborate chandelier; the stone floor appeared to have been until recently covered by a carpet-- I could only imagine how much a carpet this size would have cost.

But now torch brackets had been rudely fixed into the walls and the carpet stored elsewhere; weaponry stood in the corners, foodstuffs were stored in the fireplaces on the left, and half-a-dozen oaken tables crouched defensively in the middle of the great space. I counted at most 20 men sitting there, with another 20-odd engaged in various activities around the room. Mablung felt my disappointment, I could see it in the hunch of his shoulders: such a small force in such a mighty fortress!

I tugged my shield strap tighter and followed Mablung to the head of the nearest table. What little talk there had been suddenly ceased as the men turned towards us, and I felt rather than saw Aragorn stiffen slightly behind me. Then,

"Boromir!" they shouted as one. The mood palpably changed: their lord had arrived, it was time to put a good face on a poor situation. I grinned back.

"Soldiers of Gondor!" I cried. "A welcome sight!" Several of those present rose and bowed slightly, and I recognized them from Osgiliath. I stepped forward and greeted them by name, asked after their wounds and comrades, spoke to the others. It truly warmed my heart to see their plain joy in meeting me, but also reminded me uncomfortably of how used I was to the trappings of a prince. So after a few minutes I finished the conversations and stepped back to Mablung and Aragorn, then took my place at a separate table.


	7. Lunch

7

Mablung kicked the head seat out from under the table, an ornate inlaid chair in an Eastern design: Cair Andros had several discernibly Oriental influences, and a chair like this would help set visiting dignitaries at ease. I took one look at the sumptuous elegance and collapsed into it crosswise. I had never been one to worry about looks, unless specially requested to do so, and no fancy seat was going to make me start now. Mablung's mouth quirked momentarily and I imagined he was recalling that one nearly-disastrous dinner... I grinned myself and motioned to the only slightly less flamboyant chairs beside mine. Aragorn slipped into one and Mablung circled around behind me to sit on my left; my shadow chose a chair at a nearby table. I watched him, frowning slightly, and Mablung noticed.

"Do you not appreciate your admirer, sir?" I grimaced slightly.

"I have lost some of my tolerance for them on this trip. And him being the first person to greet me here did not help." Mablung shook his head in sympathy.

"He was actually the acting captain here when I arrived." I managed to hold my surprise in mostly, but felt my eyes widen. That lazy fellow? The captain of a fortress of this size? I took what I hoped was an unnoticeable deep breath and spoke.

"How in the name of Mandos did he get such a post? I have yet to see him do anything!" Mablung shrunk back slightly.

"He is the son of Lord Belegorn. I have no interest in generating any ill-will with his dear old daddy, especially considering my tenuous command here, so I have assigned him no acting post." I snorted.

"However you may view him, I have no such fears. Belegorn is hardly a worry to me or Father; I think he needs to learn that he is in the Army, not playing a spoiled rich lad's game. What's his name?"

"Silorn," whispered Mablung, with a half amused, half anxious expression. Aragorn had remained still through the whole exchange, nothing moving except his eyes, but now he stirred slightly. I turned and raised my voice to the young noble.

"Ho, Lord Silorn!" I called, and he started back to the real world from... whatever fantasy he'd been wandering through. "Where is our meal?" The lordling grinned idiotically and almost pranced off to where I supposed the kitchens to be. "Well, at least he'll be away for a little while," I muttered. Mablung smiled wryly.

"I hope none of us get any grief from that..."

"Nonsense," I said, waving a dismissive hand. "Now. What news from home? I confess I had not expected any information more recent than 3 months; thank the Valar you had just arrived." Mablung nodded in agreement, then launched into a brisk description of Gondor, most specifically Osgiliath.

As he spoke, the most important information I learned was about Father. He'd apparently come to depend much more on me than I knew, and without me had not done an exactly stellar job as commander-in-chief. Mablung did not, of course, say so directly, but I picked up that Father's orders were troublingly vague. Moreover, he'd become... irritable might be the best word to describe him. Faramir was taking the brunt of Father's bad mood, resulting in him being restationed to Ithilien since shortly after I left, and kept there since.

As to actual troop placement, Mablung painted an increasingly dismal picture. Father had pulled many men out of the outposts, even abandoning some of them in the South, and had also shrunk Ithilien's guard. I understood that, but would have placed them in Osgiliath myself: Father was packing them into Minas Tirith.

"All of them?" I repeated, absolutely incredulous. "Why all the way back?" Mablung gave a not-my-business shrug.

"Lord Faramir wanted the men in Ithilien, or even Osgiliath, but the Steward seems to fear a great attack sometime very soon. He wishes to be prepared."

Just then Silorn arrived with a large tray. I'd gotten used to the incongruously costly furnishings here, but the platter he was carrying stunned even my eyes. It looked like solid gold, encrusted with-- if not a king's ransom, then at least a high-ranking noble's ransom of jewels. A sizzling steak lay enthroned in the midst of attendant vegetables, and some succulent sauce oozed over it all. The entire room watched him, collective mouth agape, as he made his overloaded way to my table and laid the dish before me. With a fool grin he informed me he'd told the cooks I was hot and tired and dirty from my journey and had demanded a first-class meal: it was the only way to get any decent food.

I closed my mouth and stared in shock. My first impulse was to give him a disciplinary flogging for being a first-class moron, but this was the Army; he hadn't actually broken any rules. But what could the men think of me when I got this ultra-special treatment?

Fortunately, Mablung knew me well enough to know what I was thinking, despite my emotionless face. His mouth twitched slightly to contain a grin and he forced a grim expression. "What is this?" Silorn turned a suddenly resentful and insolent face to Mablung.

"The Lord Boromir requested food. I have brought it. Where am I remiss?" Mablung smiled thinly.

"Perhaps you and I should go talk to the cooks," he replied calmly. "If you'll excuse me." He bowed to the table and led Silorn away with one hand firmly on his shoulder. The entire room watched them go, watched the door close behind them, waited for their steps to fade away-- then burst into raucous laughter. Even Aragorn joined in, which made me feel quite a bit better after that near-fiasco.

Not that I was actually past it, I remembered as I looked down with a final chuckle. The dish was still before me; I thought for a moment, then grabbed an empty wooden trencher and dumped the food into it, pell-mell. I stood with a flourish, then regally placed the trencher in the middle of the center table. "Men," I said, looking around at them with my best benevolent-Captain smile, "dig in." They cheered, more in support of me and my situation than for the food, I think, then formed up and began helping themselves.

I sat back down with a grin and snagged a good-sized hunk of bread from a passing soldier. Aragorn, I found, was still laughing to himself, although he'd now pulled out his pipeweed and was preparing for a smoke. I smirked-- another funny mental picture, this time Aragorn laughing into his pipe and spewing the ashes every which way. He quieted down when he got the pipe going, with only a few sporadic chuckles. I shook my head and began eating the bread.

It was moderately tasteless, although fresh; I guessed the larders of Cair Andros were not as well stocked as the furniture rooms. And there could certainly have been more of it. The jug in the corner the men were filling their cups from was not, as I had thought at first, wine, despite the man standing guard over it-- just a watered-down beer. I guessed that Mablung had more to tell me, and that Cair Andros had been recently attacked, or at least menaced enough to warrant a heightened alert.

Bread and beer finished, I unwound a little in the chair and let my mind run over the immediate future. Firstly: where would we be staying? I had little or no interest in staying the night, but I doubted Mablung could run off this very day. I swallowed the last of the bread and looked around the room; the men had almost all finished and were heading back to their duties. I wondered at the rather loose atmosphere; how did that jibe with the apparent preparations for an imminent attack? I needed to ask some more detailed questions of Mablung.

And here he came: the man himself, now sans-Silorn. Aragorn turned his laconic expression on him as he strode up to the table and stood there, looking at me with a rather large smile.

"...and?" I prompted. Mablung made a token effort at erasing the smile, failed, and launched into his story. By the end Aragorn dropped his pipe he was laughing so hard, and I fared no better.

Seems the cooks hadn't heard thing one from Silorn; they had been preparing the meat as somewhat of a celebration, for all the troops, but on their own initiative. He'd snuck in and somehow swiped the wooden platter, then transferred the contents to that treasure plate he'd come in with. The cooks, of course, had been near frantic trying to locate the roast that had apparently walked off by itself; when Mablung arrived with Silorn, they'd latched onto his guilty expression. The head cook physically threatened to turn Silorn into the next appetizer, and only Mablung's authority rescued the unwise young man from being immediately quartered-- never mind the hanging and drawing. Mablung has always been one of those people who can turn any tale into a side-splittingly funny story, and he really did a fine job this time, imitating everything from the cook's heavy Pelargian accent to Silorn's lightning change of expression (from high-and-haughty to abjectly-terrified).

When I wiped my eyes and Aragorn recovered his pipe, Mablung chuckling all the while, I turned to him.

"Now that you have failed in committing regicide, since we did not quite die of laughter-" Aragorn cracked up again behind me "-when did you plan to leave? If tomorrow, where shall we stay tonight?"

Mablung looked past me at Aragorn, who was now doing his very best to return to a future-king-like regal state and not succeeding, and just shook his head. "I had planned to leave on the morrow. I know not if friend Aragorn shall be ready by then, however, or if he shall still be laughing." Aragorn got back his self-control at that, but I lost mine; Mablung just threw up his hands and grinned.

"It seems my talent is too well-honed! Should there be an Orc attack I have rendered useless two mighty warriors!" Pandemonium-- now Aragorn and me. Finally, Aragorn got up, staggered laughing to the water barrel in the corner, and splashed a full dipper into his face, then returned and did the same for me.

"All right," I said, turning a serious face to Mablung. "We leave tomorrow, and stay where tonight?"

Mablung shrugged. "There are many spare bedrooms, some of them for dignitaries so they are quite sumptuous. We can easily put you in one, Aragorn in the other."

"Very well," put in Aragorn before I could speak. "Lead on; then we shall do what we may about the fortress. There yet remains much of the day."


	8. Shades of an Attack

8

It was good to have a room again, to be out of the rain and mists of the river. But I also found it difficult to return to the way I lived before: commanding men no longer came second nature. I always had to be careful not to sound to authoritarian, too quick to judge-- Aragorn was their true King, whether they knew it or not. So I sat in my room, checking my baggage, feeling like extraneous baggage myself.

As I went through my things, I found my mind wandering unbidden into dark hollows, typical death thoughts: Mother dying, when we were young; from there to our own inescapable deaths. I continued into contemplation of the deaths of kingdoms: none of those founded back in the Elder Days persisted, and I knew Gondor could not but share the same fate. Aragorn might breathe life into it for a time, Frodo might even succeed and Sauron be overthrown, and yet... I quit even the pretense of preparation and collapsed onto the bed. Why do anything? I was going to die anyway, and whether I died here or tomorrow or 50 years from now Gondor would fall. A mighty war, a centuries-long wasting away; one or the other, my country would disappear and its place would remember it no more.

No more- no more- no more. Those words ran around and around my head, jeering and pitying by turns. But... something mundane niggled at the back of my mind, asked, demanded, insisted upon attention. I pulled my thoughts away from death and turned to this little thought.

_Doesn't this seem familiar to you, Boromir?_ it asked. I pondered. Yes, it did, somewhat. Then I remembered and smote my forehead. What was I doing?

Focusing my attention on the here and now, I left the room, heading for the battlements. After only a minute finding my way back to the walls, I came just in time to hear it: a faint cry. A cry only in the mind, just as the momentary darkness under an unobscured sun was only in the mind. I looked up, my heart quailing despite myself, and felt an unreasonable terror.

"Nazgûl." Well I remembered that horror, the terrible horseman there at the bridge. My mind threatened to run back there, to start reliving that night again, but I shook my head decisively. He was not here, and I would not be cowed by the mere memory. I longed to meet him again, to face my unreasonable fear, but I knew whatever cried above me was not he-- one of the others, the lower ones.

But still enough to unman me, and enough to set the next guard down the wall cowering; I looked over to see him crouched back in the shadows of the crenelation, shaking in fear, and smiled wryly.

He took control of his emotions and heaved himself to his feet, an expression of shame now displacing the terror; he turned quickly back to watching the distant lands. If he hoped I would not notice him, however, he was mistook.

I walked up slowly beside him and halted. Now that I could pay attention to the countryside, I found it was a fine spring day, with a strong breeze blowing over the castle. I turned and put my elbows, one after the other, on the wall, and looked out with the guard. He shifted nervously, but said nothing; I just stared into the wind and waited. Finally, he made an attempt.

"M'lord?" I twitched slightly-- 'm'lord' was Aragorn, now.

"Soldier?" I turned somewhat, and was annoyed to find the wind getting my hair across my face; I gave my head a twist and flick, and the hair went back to where it was supposed to be.

The guard was looking away now, as if overcome by the foolhardiness of addressing the son of the Steward. I smiled wryly again.

"I am not the King. I am not even the Steward," I reminded him calmly. "Anyone can see your fear. Since you cannot hide it, do you not desire an explanation?"

"I am not afraid," he replied in a shaky voice. Before I could call him down for such a blatant falsehood, he continued, "Something plants the fear in me."

I closed my mouth and nodded. "So it is. One of the Nine flies above. It imparts this fear, as you say."

"How do... how do you fight it?" he asked, looking at me sideways as if I would throw him in chains for daring to address me. I grinned.

"I just remember who I am and why I am here. And that I am a man of Gondor and not some sorcerer's plaything. When you give in to the fear, when you hide from it or flee it, it only becomes more potent." The soldier looked away again and nodded briskly.

"Thank you, sir. I won't disgrace you again, sir." I snorted slightly, but said nothing; if he was so uncomfortable with me talking to him, I'd do better to leave. I decided to go and see if I could do a better job reassuring with some other guard.

Mablung appeared just then, standing down in the courtyard. The wind caught at his words, but I caught "...Aragorn!..." I frowned and ran down the stairs to where he stood, shading his eyes with one hand.

"What is this?"

Mablung bit his lip, then replied, "Your Aragorn has disappeared. One of the lower officers came to me and told me Aragorn had gone missing, after saying he was under no man's authority here save yours." Mablung caught my twitch and lowered his voice. "Yet he is not under your authority either, is he, sir?"

I sighed. "Aragorn is not over me, but neither is he under me as far as I know. He... there are many things about him, many important-- he is best left alone. Do not delve too deeply, there is much he wishes to keep secret," I finished, somewhat lamely I thought. Mablung nodded, however.

"If you wish us to leave him to his own devices, and not delve into his secrets, consider it done. And I doubt the other soldiers suspect him of harboring secrets. That I only inferred from your manner."

"Good," I replied, somewhat relieved. But this question had reminded me of another problem we would face, and possibly were facing right now: who would Aragorn serve when he did come to Minas Tirith? Would he offer his sword to Father, planning to keep his right hid until a more meet time? Would he go straight to him and tell him who he was, and it was time to surrender the throne to the hope unlooked-for? And if so-- what _would_ Father do?

"...could again. Sir?" I blinked and looked at Mablung, who was staring at me in mingled concern and annoyance. "Did you hear me, sir?"

"Sorry, Mablung, I didn't," I confessed. "I was pondering Aragorn, and how well he would fit in in Minas Tirith."

Mablung nodded and recapped what he'd just informed me of. An Orc attack, just two nights ago. Nothing serious, just a lone scout or two lobbing arrows at the guards on the walls; one guard had taken an arrow in his shoulder, but he was in the infirmary and expected to live-- the arrow was not poisoned. The Orcs had not been sighted, as it was a cloudy night under a young moon, and at dawn they had left no obvious trace.

"But for such a small force to attack makes no logical sense," I mused aloud. "All it can possibly do is alert you to a possible attack later on. They had no need to fire arrows at you to see how many men you might have on the battlements. Unless-- unless they were testing your strength solely to see if you might contest a crossing farther south." Mablung nodded, and I shook my head again. "But there is no crossing farther south that is not already well-protected; Osgiliath will put up all the fight it can and needs not Cair Andros to help it. It makes no sense."

"Perhaps they do plan an attack later, and wish us to be prepared." I stared at him.

"What?"

"I mean, prepared as one prepares meat. Jittery and anxious, so as to be an easier target."

"Easier than caught unawares? No, it is senseless." Then I recalled something and stiffened. "Which side did they attack from, Mablung?"

He frowned at that. "Now that you mention it, they attacked from the west side. But they were Orcs-- Orcish arrows and cries, at any rate. And Orcs do sometimes raid across the river, in just such small parties; we ascribed it to an attempt to surprise us on the wrong side."

"Could I see the arrow?" Mablung shrugged.

"The healer may have kept it, I know not. But we can go and look if you wish."

"Lead the way," I answered. I was becoming worried about the Orcs we had met at Amon Hen; Aragorn had determined they owed allegiance to Saruman, and if so, and these were of the same... what of Rohan? I strode off after Mablung towards the infirmary.


End file.
